


Anything is possible

by Sherctorrunning23



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But not a cute one, First Kiss, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Oneshot, Party, Sexual Tension, Stranger!Lock, Teenlock, Well it's sort of cute, drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 23:06:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9464546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherctorrunning23/pseuds/Sherctorrunning23
Summary: It was one of those parties where anything is possible.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick one shot of Sherlock and John meeting at a party, connecting, getting hammered and making out furiously before being inevitably interrupted. 
> 
> Please comment any other one shot ideas and leave kudos :)

It was one of those parties where anything is possible.

John hadn’t been to many of those parties before. Sure, he was a sociable boy: sure, he was popular, but parties weren’t generally _his thing._ He hated being talked about and he hated small talk, and those were generally exactly what happened at parties.

But because it was at Mike’s house, John and the rest of their old squad (which, at the moment, consisted of Mary and Molly and Sarah) had all faithfully promised to come.

And come they had.

Right from walking into the house, John knew it was going to be awkward as _fuck._ They were now halfway through year 13, and Mike had moved schools at the end of GCSEs: all the people here were from his new school, his new friends, and John groaned. ‘Why did we promise to come?’

Mary, who was wearing a rather fetching white dress, shrugged in disgust. ‘Because Mike promised it would be a small gathering.’

As if by magic, Mike appeared, wearing a stupid shirt and with a shot glass in his left hand. ‘Johnny! The others! You came!’

‘Just about,’ Sarah grouched. ‘Mike. This isn’t _small._ ’

Mike blinked blearily. ‘It got…out of control. Don’t worry, everyone here is overage.’ The girl he was with, who John had just noticed was there, laughed hysterically and Mike kissed her, long and lingering, his tongue jabbing into her mouth.

John resisted the urge to laugh, instead biting his lip. ‘Right. Well-‘

‘Alcohol’s over there,’ Mike said, his mouth still firmly attached to the girl’s. ‘People everywhere. Don’t bum anyone out.’

And with that, he was gone.

Sarah rolled her eyes. ‘He’s such a prick when he’s drunk.’

‘Yeah? Well.’ John rolled up his sleeves: it was _roasting_ hot. ‘It’s preferable to being awkward. Anyone up for some booze?’

Upon hearing an affirmative from all of them, even shy little Molly, John sauntered over to the table. On his way, he passed three snogging couples, wrinkling his nose in disgust as he expertly poured four cups of some mysterious clear liquid.

_Teenagers these days._

‘I know.’ The deep, husky voice came from slightly to the right and above him. ‘Disgusting, isn’t it?’

John turned sharply, wondering if he had said it out loud. The boy who’d said it smiled, shaking his head. ‘You didn’t say anything. I just- I understood.’

John grinned, drinking in the sight of the boy. He was maybe six foot tall, about a year younger than John, pale, big hands, a shocking amount of black curls and intense, blue(ish) eyes that seemed to see right into John’s soul.

_He was fucking hot._

John wasn’t gay. He made that very clear. What he was…was appreciative of attractive people. Yes. That was it. Appreciative. That was all. He didn’t let it bother him, just tried to avoid males.

Usually.

John resisted the urge to drag his eyes appreciatively up the boy’s body, instead smiling as warmly as he could. ‘I _know_ , right? I’m like- get a room!’

The boy smirked slightly, before taking one of John’s cups and sipping it, slowly. John raised an eyebrow, surprised by the audacity, but didn’t reprimand him. ‘I’m surprised you’re not wincing,’ he said instead. ‘It’s pretty strong.’

‘I’ve been drinking for over an hour,’ the boy dismissed. ‘I’m used to it. Come with me?’

John blinked. ‘What?’

‘Come with me. You know no one here, you’re feeling awkward, come with me. We shall collect your friends on the way.’ The boy cocked his head, placing the now-empty cup on the table. ‘Come on.’

John’s mouth fell open. ‘My friends-‘

‘Come.’

‘I don’t even know your name.’ John narrowed his eyes, before joking, ‘Are you going to murder me?’

The boy’s grin widened. ‘Not tonight. The name’s Sherlock.’

It suited him, John had to give him that. Not many people could pull off a name as absolutely _twattish_ as Sherlock, but this boy could. ‘John.’

‘Suits you,’ Sherlock said, and then he turned on his heel and abruptly moved into the crowd. ‘Come.’

John didn’t even think before following him.

They picked up John’s friends on the way, John briefly explaining that he had made friends with the hot boy at the drinks table and he was taking them somewhere, even as Mary scowled and Sarah rolled her eyes and Molly stared with adoration at Sherlock’s back. They weaved through the crowd, John trying _very_ hard not to stare at the younger boy’s bum (‘You filthy animal,’ Sarah whispered as they walked. ‘You just think he’s hot.’), until they reached a door set into a room that was already filled with people.

John tried the handle, jiggling it around before turning to Sherlock. ‘Locked, mate.’

Sherlock sighed, glared at John, and knocked briskly three times.

The door was thrown open, and Sherlock gestured at them to follow him.

As they entered the room, John realised that he had, in fact, been in here before. It was the drawing room (Mike lived in a ridiculously big, ridiculously posh Tudor mansion), and they had played monopoly in here on wet winter days, when they were younger.

Now, a boy was draped over the sofa: another boy was lying, prone, on the floor: and an incredibly attractive girl was sitting cross-legged in an armchair, watching Sherlock with interest.

‘Who’ve you brought?’ The boy on the sofa drawled. He was Irish, John noticed, with slicked-back black hair and incredibly brown eyes: he was also wearing an expensive suit, though why he had thought it would be needed at this party, John had no idea.

Sherlock waved at John. ‘This is John. These are John’s friends.’

The boy on the floor raised his head in interest. ‘You never bring in new people,’ he mused. This boy had lighter brown hair, with green eyes, and was wearing a tie, a pair of very tight blue shorts and a tank top. ‘What’s so special about this John, hey?’

Before Sherlock could reply, the girl stood up and made her way over to John. ‘My name is Irene,’ she said in a voice that could only be described as _sultry_. ‘That’s Jim,’ she gestured at the boy on the sofa, ‘And that’s Victor.’ The boy on the floor waved. ‘We’re friends of Jim’s from school: we assume you knew him before? We don’t care. What has my Sherlock been doing to you?’

John took a slight step back. ‘I literally met him two minutes ago.’

‘Uh huh.’ Irene turned towards the other three. ‘Right. Who here likes a bit of same sex relations?’

Mary shook her head firmly. ‘Definitely not.’ Mary had pretty traditional views on homosexuality, which was odd considering two of her three best friends were bi and the other was definitely ambiguous.

Irene, smile plastered over her face, grabbed Mary by the arm, took her to the door, pushed her out then slammed and locked it.

John gaped. Molly gaped. Sarah looked secretly pleased.

‘Right,’ Irene said breezily. ‘Now that’s taken care of, I want this one.’ She took Molly’s arm and gently led her back to her armchair.

Victor nodded at Sarah. ‘You legal?’

‘I’m eighteen years old,’ Sarah sniffed.

Victor smiled, a slow, easy smile. ‘And you’re not a lesbian?’

Sarah bristled. ‘Is that any of your-‘

‘Brilliant. Come over here, darling. I’m a huge fan of casual sex, especially when I’m drunk.’ Victor waggled his eyebrows, and Sarah flicked him off before storming away, out of the door and towards Mary.

John looked helplessly at Molly, but she was already transfixed with Irene, who was sitting so close to her that John couldn’t tell whose legs were whose.   
Victor groaned. ‘Jimmy?’

‘If Sherl’s busy,’ Jim sighed, and moved off the sofa before pointing at Sherlock. ‘Go on, Tiger.’  

Sherlock, who was standing awkwardly by the sofa, cleared his throat. ‘Drink?’ He said to John, and John, who was feeling slightly out of his depth (Jim and Victor were now snogging in the corner), nodded wordlessly. If he was going to get drunk, he might as well do it with a hot stranger.

7 drinks later, John was well and truly pissed.

Having talked about how the others had met, John’s bitchy other friends, their families and their other friends for over three hours, him and Sherlock were as close as they could possibly get without touching: John could almost feel the electric impulses the younger boy was giving off, dancing along their so-close legs. Sherlock’s pupils were blown from the alcohol, his hands draped casually over the arm of the sofa, his lips as curved as cupid’s bow, slightly open, pink tongue wetting them every now and then-

_John._

John wondered if the sexual chemistry was nearly killing Sherlock, too.

They’d been talking as a group for almost an hour, John guessed, but he was far too busy undressing Sherlock with his eyes to properly join in. He’d barely heard a word the other boy said: he’d barely heard a word anyone said. He’d never felt like this before, such a vivid, exotic connection with anyone, and he had never expected to: the fact that it was towards a seventeen year old male genius made it even crazier, but John was past the point of caring.

He didn’t even know the boy’s last name, he hadn’t even touched him, and he already felt giddy with everything about him.

Irene was talking, but Sherlock was looking at him, his eyes dancing along his face, dipping lower, then back up, front teeth gently biting his plush lower lip, and John wondered what it would be like to bite that full lip himself, gently stroking it with his tongue-

_JOHN._

Sherlock stood up suddenly, startling John and everyone else in the room: even Jim and Victor, who were hiding in the corner feeling each other up, paused and turned. ‘I need- um. More drinks.’ He looked at John. ‘Come with me?’

John stood, body almost vibrating with need and the alcohol. ‘Um- yes.’

As he followed Sherlock out of the room, he wondered what Sherlock wanted to say to him. For all his initial bluster he seemed a bit shy, a bit young, which for some reason just appealed him all the more to John, and _god_ his jeans were tight-fitting.

John followed Sherlock out of the door and then through the crowd. They passed the drinks table, John frowning, and as Sherlock pushed open another door that led to a small, empty room that might have been a large closet once, said, ‘What are we-‘

Sherlock slammed the door, slammed John against it and slammed his lips into John’s.

John was totally overloaded straight away.

Sherlock was everywhere, on his tongue and his hands, in his sight and his nose, vibrating in his eardrums, _absolutely everywhere._ The whole of the world seemed to shrink until it was literally just Sherlock, all over his senses, the only thing that mattered on the whole of the planet.

‘Sherlock-‘

‘Shut up,’ Sherlock growled. ‘God, you play hard to get, don’t you, John Watson?’

John groaned and threw his head back as Sherlock kissed down his neck, sucking right over his collarbone, before climbing back up to kiss underside of his chin. ‘Jesus Christ, I’ve wanted to do this for hours,’ he gasped, and Sherlock laughed breathlessly, pausing so their eyes were level. ‘I know,’ he whispered, voice catching in his throat, ‘I know that. I know.’

And then they were kissing again, kissing like the sun was about to explode, the universe about to be obliterated, the world about to end, kissing like they were pure oxygen, kissing like they would never kiss again. John had had girlfriends, he’d kissed Mary and Sarah, but nothing compared to kissing Sherlock, not like this, and John knew straight away that no kiss could ever compare to this one, not for the rest of his life-

Sherlock’s hands, which had been on his shoulder and in his hair, moved suddenly downwards, hitching John’s leg up to his waist, pressing John further into the door and lifting him up, and John could hardly breathe at this point, as he stared into those dancing eyes and felt an unimaginable urge rising up inside him, up and up and up until he felt like he was going to explode with sheer _Sherlock._ ‘You-‘

The door was pushed open, and Sherlock was gone so quickly that John fell to the ground, landing on his left knee and wincing as a pain shot up his leg.

‘Sherlock,’ Jim said, eyes darting between the two, ‘Mikey is here to get you.’

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and darted from the room without a backwards glance, leaving John kneeling on the floor, totally alone.

His heart racing, his head pounding, John genuinely couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe that Sherlock had done that, couldn’t believe that he had experienced feelings so deliciously intense, and couldn’t believe that he had just _left him like that._ How _dare_ he? You didn’t just snog someone senseless and run off. What an utter _prick_. John had no idea what he had even _seen_ in him, that total _wanker-_

The door opened again.

Sherlock ran in, smiled bashfully at John (though how he could be bashful after that, he had no idea). ‘The name,’ he said quietly, and his voice caught on the first word, ‘is Sherlock Holmes. And the address is 221B Baker Street.’

The smile crept back onto John’s face despite himself, and he shook his head. ‘You might be a complete stranger, but you’re a complete liability, Sherlock Holmes.’

‘I feel like that isn’t a negative for you, John Watson,’ Sherlock replied. ‘I have your number. Don't ask how.' 

‘Will you call me?' John asked, hating how needy he sounded, and Sherlock licked his lips. 'Anything is possible,' he murmured, and then he kissed John on the lips, gently this time, and John could have sworn the world burned a little brighter, just for a moment, before Sherlock pulled away and turned. 'I'll be seeing you, John Watson,' he called as he left the room, and as he left, John could have sworn he had a small, smug smile on his face, but John didn’t even care. He didn’t care that Sherlock was a stranger, and he didn’t care that he was now officially not-straight because _fuck,_ Sherlock was hot, and he didn’t care that he might never see him again, because he’d had the night of his life regardless.

And he might call him, he thought, because Sherlock was one of those people that made you think that anything was possible. 


End file.
